


Stowing Down & Clearing Up

by lonelywalker



Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: Community: picfor1000, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In love, somehow, a man's heart is always either exceeding the speed limit, or getting parked in the wrong place” - Helen Rowland. Written for picfor1000 and inspired by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/blackbutterfly/3335631952/lightbox/">this photo</a>. Title nabbed from <i>Moby-Dick</i>.</p><p>After Genevieve, Mike, and Owen leave for the evening, Pella and her dad have a little chat about dating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stowing Down & Clearing Up

Pella sat down at the end of the couch and thoughtfully swallowed the last sip of scotch from Mike's glass as she listened to her father's footsteps ascend the stairs. It was late – very late for Westish if not San Francisco – and this had been more socializing than she'd done in years. She'd had fun, too. Mike had been as good a conversationalist as she'd hoped, and Owen was also surprisingly articulate for a baseball player, even if both of them were perpetually in a little too much awe of her dad.

Her dad was charming and brilliant and handsome, and at a rural college like this those sorts of things could resolve themselves into a real personality cult. Despite it all, though, Guert Affenlight still wandered back into the study alone, unknotting his tie with a vaguely puzzled expression. 

Pella raised her eyebrows. "It's not like you to strike out."

He met her gaze, blinking innocently. "What?"

"Are you _really_ letting Genevieve go back to her hotel all alone?"

"Pella."

"Don't Pella me. You were just saying how few interesting women there are around here, and I bet it's hard to get a cab at this time of night. You could have suggested—"

Her dad looked at her askance, picking up one of his now almost-empty scotch bottles from the table. "She's here because she's concerned about her son, not to get hit on by the college president."

Pella set down her glass and re-crossed her legs. They weren't quite in Genevieve Wister's league, she judged, but they weren't _bad_ for all that. "Really? Because she pretty clearly wanted to get into your pants."

Given his anxiety about looking good prior to Genevieve's visit, he seemed to be almost shocked by the idea now. "What was I supposed to do? Desert you and Owen to go and romance his mother? I hardly think—"

"We're both big kids, Dad. I think we could probably cope with knowing our parents were getting laid."

"I do try not to offend your delicate sensibilities." He splashed a liberal amount of scotch into his glass, without water this time, and sank into the leather armchair. "Perhaps you should worry more about your boyfriend. He volunteered to be Genevieve's knight in shining armor, as he was driving into town anyway."

There it was again: Mike Schwartz attempting to enact a Midwest version of gallantry and still getting it horribly wrong. At least this time, instead of hurling projectiles at her dad, he was only inadvertently cockblocking him. Pella couldn't help but smile. "Sorry about that. She really did seem into you. She even asked me if you were gay."

His smile wasn’t quite as wide as she expected. "What brought that on?"

"I don't know, you're a good-looking, never-married man in your sixties with no obviously devastating character flaws. It makes a girl wonder." Pella shrugged. "And because Owen’s such a big fan of your book. I mean, Owen's gay, isn't he?"

Her dad took a sip of scotch. "He has one of those rainbow pins on his bag."

"Ah, elementary, my dear Pella." She scrutinized him where he sat – four years apart and he somehow actually looked better than she remembered. Her dad was the king of making a good impression, even unintentionally, even apparently preoccupied the way he was now, staring past his glass, fingertips thoughtfully brushing his lips.

After eight years of self-enforced exile by Lake Michigan, though, he seemed to spend more time living in his own head than he used to. True, there wasn't an opera or theatre anywhere near Westish, but it would be nice for him to have someone, a Genevieve Wister, to talk to on cold nights. Which was pretty much every night in Wisconsin. 

As a kid, she’d initially hated the idea of interloping girlfriends, but then she’d seen _The Sound of Music_ and become enthralled with the idea of a bright, nurturing stepmother who might be her ally rather than a mortal foe. It hadn’t really mattered. None of her dad’s girlfriends had ever stuck around.

“You look lovely in that dress.”

She was surprised to hear him speak, to find him quietly studying her. Usually when he was in this sort of mood he could be counted on to barely even remember her existence. She looked down at the dress.

“I mean it.” His voice was soft, smoky, sincere. When she glanced up, self-consciously smoothing the fabric over her stomach, he was smiling that utterly genuine smile of his, the one that reached his eyes, and which he’d once exclusively reserved for her pre-pubescent self. “You’re a truly beautiful young woman, Pella, and I’m so glad you’re here. It really means the world to me.”

She could have hugged him then, knocking the scotch out of the way, or pointed out that, however strained things had been between them, she had nowhere else to go. But she smiled instead and raised a finger. “See, _that_ , dear father, is why there is no way on this earth Genevieve Wister is immune to your charms.”

“Pella...”

“Seriously. Didn’t you even get her number?”

With a sigh and a slightly sheepish expression, he edged a slip of paper from his pocket and laid the damning evidence on the table. “It’s just in case of further emergencies…”

“Sure it is.”

He finished his scotch, set down the empty glass, and checked his watch. “Well, regardless, I’m going to bed. Remember to switch the lights off?”

“Your cold, empty bed…” she teased as he leaned in to kiss her forehead, giving her one of his ‘exasperated parent’ looks in the process. “Really, though. I want you to be happy. I want you to try.”

Her dad smiled and, thankfully, made no pointed remark about her lack of qualifications in the field of contented relationships. “I am trying. I promise.”

Genevieve Wister’s number, though, remained lying where he had left it, untouched, on the table.

Pella poured herself another drink.


End file.
